DALTON
Aria Davis got off work at three. I knew that because I'd memorized her schedule the same way I memorized quarterly projections efficiently, without meaning to.
I'd already seen her once today at the café. She'd been quieter than usual, polite, focused. No sarcasm. No fire. Just the kind of exhaustion you only see in people who've been through hell and are still expected to clock in for work the next morning.
I didn't plan on hovering. I just wanted five minutes ten at most to convince her to move in with me before I drowned in another pile of contracts.
By the time Marcus parked outside her building, it was almost three-thirty. I sat in the car longer than I should have, pretending to read an email I'd already answered. I asked Marcus to go and get her something to eat from the usual place. Then when he delivers we can go back after I'm done with Aria.
Then I went up. Knocked. Waited. Nothing.
My first thought wasn't irritation; it was something's wrong. She lived alone. I'd seen what grief could do to people.
I knocked again still no response.
The handle turned easily under my palm. Unlocked. That wasn't smart. I stepped inside.
Her living room looked exactly as I remembered: small, cluttered, the faint scent of coffee clinging to the air. I took one step forward then froze.
She wasn't in the living room I was about to check if she is in her room when I heard the door behind me open.
And there she was.
Dripping wet, wrapped in a robe that didn't quite cover her, clutching a bundle of clothes. For a second, neither of us moved.
Then she screamed.
"What the hell?!"
Her voice hit like a slap. My pulse spiked, ridiculous considering I was a grown man and not some teenager caught sneaking into a girl's room.
She jabbed a finger at me. "You can't just materialize in people's homes like Batman!"
I should've looked away immediately but I didn't. Not until I noticed the robe slipping. One stray movement and her left breast flashed into view.
I froze. For a full second, I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked.
She'd always been beautiful, but this this was something else. The steam from the shower clung to her skin, her lips flushed, her robe threatening to betray her completely. The sight hit me like a punch to the ribs.
"Turn around!"
I spun so fast it almost hurt.
I stared at the peeling paint on her wall and tried to remember how breathing worked.
Behind me, she was still talking furious, flustered, alive. "What are you even doing here, Dalton? Have you lost your mind?"
"I knocked," I said evenly. "No one answered. The door was unlocked. I thought something happened."
"You thought something happened, so your solution was to break in?"
"Technically, I walked in," I replied, too tired for semantics but doing it anyway.
"Technically, you're insane," she shot back. "You can't just wait, why are you looking around like that?"
Because I couldn't help it. Because everything in this place screamed of the life she'd been forced to live—bare walls, dying fridge, an environment too small for someone who burned this bright.
"I was checking to make sure you were okay," I said finally.
"Well, surprise. I'm alive. You can go now you saw me in the morning at the coffee shop."
That hit harder than it should have. She said it like I was an intrusion, not a concern.
"You came from Mrs. Evans's apartment. Why?"
"That's none of your business."
"Did you shower there?" I pressed before I could stop myself.
She folded her arms, glare sharp enough to cut steel. "You're crossing a line, Gray."
I met her eyes, unflinching. "Then just tell me what's wrong."
Her shoulders slumped, annoyance leaking through. "Fine. My water got cut off, okay? I forgot to pay the bill. But I'll handle it tonight."
A lie. I'd learned to read them years ago in boardrooms, in interviews, in mirrors.
I muttered a curse under my breath and rubbed the bridge of my nose. She was going to fight me on this. Of course she was.
"Get dressed," I said finally. "You're coming with me."
She blinked, then laughed loud, incredulous.
"Oh, that's rich. You hide it well, but you're actually funny."
"I'm serious, Aria."
"Of course you are. You're always serious. Look, thank you for your… concern, but I'm not moving in with you. That's not happening."
Her tone was final, but I'd spent a lifetime negotiating with people who thought they were immovable.
"You can barely afford water," I said quietly. "I'm not leaving you here like this."
"Well, guess what?" she snapped. "You don't get to decide that. You're not my dad. You're not my anything. So take your expensive savior complex and go home."
That one landed. Hard. I deserved it. I'd come here acting like I had any right to fix her world just because I could afford to.
I should've left then. Should've apologized.
Instead, I looked around again trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. "I'll wait until you're ready to talk. But I'm not leaving you alone like this."
Her voice softened, barely. "Why? Why do you even care?"
Because I did. More than I should.
But I wasn't going to say that. Not to her. Not yet.
"Because someone should," I said, and that was the truth that slipped out before I could stop it.
She blinked, caught off guard, then rolled her eyes and muttered something about "stubborn billionaires" before slamming her door.
The sound echoed through the tiny apartment.
I stood there for a few seconds, letting my pulse settle. Then I exhaled, checked my watch 4:15 and pulled my phone from my pocket.
DALTON: Deliver her dinner. Make sure she eats.
Marcus replied instantly: Yes, sir.
I walked to her door and knocked once. "I'm leaving," I said through the wood. "We'll discuss this another time."
A muffled curse came back. Good. She'd heard me.
Outside, the air was cooler. My driver looked at me questioningly, but I waved him off. "Take me back to the office," I said. "I've got work."
Back in the car, the city blurred past, a wash of color and motion that failed to distract me. I told myself to focus on the emails piling up, the meetings waiting. But my thoughts kept looping back to that image her hair wet, skin flushed, eyes wild with equal parts rage and embarrassment.
I'd always known she was attractive. Objectively. But that moment had stripped every filter, every wall between us. Seeing her like that unguarded, raw, human hit something deep and dangerous.
I tried to bury it under logic. She was vulnerable. She needed help. That was all this was.
Except it wasn't.
By the time we reached my building, I'd already decided: this wasn't over. She could slam every door in my face, curse my name, throw my offers back at meit didn't matter.
I'd find a way to make her see reason.
Because I couldn't walk away from Aria Davis. Not now. Not when she'd looked at me with that mix of fury and fear and something else I couldn't name without setting fire to everything I'd built to stay detached.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the problem.